Some Cupid Kills With Arrows, Some With Traps
by PorcupineGirl
Summary: After Moriarty forces Sherlock into an admission, he and John deal with the fallout for years to come. What exactly does love mean to a man like Sherlock Holmes, anyway? (Begins sometime between Sherlock's defeat of Irene Adler and Moriarty's capture by Mycroft, will end about two years after TRF.)
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock carefully opened the door to the abandoned building. He quickly glanced around, taking stock of his surroundings and confirming that there were no booby traps set. He double-checked the instructions he'd decoded before proceeding up the stairs and through a series of twisting corridors, finally arriving at a closed door with a clean, cheerful welcome mat set in front of it. He never would understand Moriarty's sense of humor.

He carefully opened the door, and as he did, a light switched on. There was a large window on the wall opposite; clearly, this was what he was intended to focus on, but he forced himself to ignore it until he'd taken stock of the rest of the room (a process which took, of course, approximately two seconds). It was small, only about ten feet wide and six feet deep. It was empty but for a speaker in one corner near the ceiling, and a tiny camera next to the speaker. The window took up most of the wall except for a door next to it that led into the room the window looked onto. There was a keypad next to the door. The next puzzle seemed clear.

He finally let himself look through the window.

"John!" he called, not knowing if his friend could see or hear him.

Sherlock was worried he was unconscious, but apparently he was only sleeping, as at the sound of his name he stirred and turned his head.

"Sherlock! Thank god, it's about time!" he gave the detective a lopsided grin, out of place given his current condition.

John Watson was strapped down to some kind of table, which appeared to be a version of a medieval rack. His arms were stretched above his head, his hands and feet bound with metal cuffs. Sherlock saw the key was hung on the wall behind him. He looked like he'd been beaten before being strapped down, with a large bruise on one cheek and several more along his side. Most worrying, though, were the electrodes stuck to his bare torso in at least eight places. Sherlock tried the door, just in case, but was unsurprised to find it locked.

"There's a keypad on the door," Sherlock said almost to himself, examining the numbers. "Think John, whoever did this to you, did they let anything slip that might have been a clue to the code? Actually, just tell me everything they said, you probably don't know what was or wasn't a clue."

A high-pitched laugh rang through the little room, and Moriarty's voice boomed out of the speaker.

"Oh, the keypad. Yes, I'd almost forgotten about that. Don't bother, it was here when I bought the place. It's disconnected. There's only one button that opens that door, and it's right next to me. Oh, and before you decide to come looking for it - and me - we are in Glasgow. John here would be dead long before you arrived." Sherlock's hand moved toward the pocket he kept his phone in. "I believe you'll find it a bit difficult to get cellular reception in there. I wouldn't bother."

"Fine, then. Are you going to tell me what puzzle I must solve, or is that part of the puzzle?" Sherlock's voice held a hint of annoyance, but a larger hint of intrigue.

"No puzzle, Sherlock. Nothing for your great intellect to pull apart or piece together. All I want is the answer to one simple question. And every time you answer that question wrong, this will happen."

As the electricity coursed through his body, John let out an inhuman yell. He stiffened, then shook. Sherlock observed coolly and carefully.

"That shock lasted exactly three seconds," Sherlock began.

"Are you sure?" John interrupted, sounding weary. "I could have sworn it was at least a half an hour."

"Judging from the intensity of your reaction," Sherlock continued, "and assuming the same duration for each shock, I have five to seven chances to answer this question."

"Five to seven chances before what?"

"Before it kills you."

John sighed. "Let's hope it's nothing about pop culture, then."

Moriarty broke in. "Oh don't worry, Dr Watson, I know for a fact that Sherlock knows the answer to this one. Are you ready?"

Sherlock waited several seconds before realizing that Moriarty wasn't being rhetorical. "Get on with it."

"Here it is, then. The one very simple question you must answer to save this man's life: Why on _earth_ do you want me to let him live?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the video camera. "Because he's done nothing to deserve torture, let alone death. And he's not your target anyhow, I am."

"WRONG!" Sherlock whipped his head around to see his friend writhing again at the jolt.

"Of course," he murmured to himself. "It wasn't the answer you wanted, but I am the target, aren't I?"

"I will allow that everything you said is technically true. But it is not the correct answer to my question."

"Fine." Sherlock fixed his gaze on the camera. "I don't want you to kill this man because he is my friend. The only person on earth that I call by that title. I would say that he is my best friend, but as he is my only friend it would be redundant. But yes, Moriarty, I want you to let him live because he is my friend and I care about him."

"WRONG!"

This time, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to look at John until it was over. Then he turned on his heel and headed toward the door. "This is a boring, childish game, and I -"

"_CrossthatthresholdandheDIES!_" The threat thundered through the tiny room. Sherlock stopped just short of the doorway. He didn't move for half a minute. Finally, he looked back up at the camera.

"All right, Moriarty, is this what you want?" His voice was calm, as was his gaze. "I, the great Sherlock Holmes, am capable of love. I love my friend, John Watson, and that weakness of mine allows you to use him as a pawn in your little games. I am not a perfectly rational man, and my imperfection is love. Though for the record, I'm not sure that I actually regret it. Are you happy? You win. I admit that -"

"**_WROOOOONG_**!"

"Damn it!" Sherlock ran back to the window. At first, John's eyes didn't open after this shock, but slowly his head lolled from one side to the other, and his eyes blinked heavily. He attempted to smile, but could only achieve a half-grimace. When he spoke, his voice was raspy and slightly slurred.

"I'm touched. Love you too, mate, but if you've any idea what he's getting at, I'd love you more if you could get me out of here."

"I'm impressed that you're still conscious, my good doctor." Moriarty sounded chipper, perhaps in an even better mood than when they had started. "But I assure you, Sherlock, that he most certainly won't be after the next wrong answer." His voice suddenly switched from cheerful to threatening. "And I daresay he won't survive two more. Now. _Why do you want me to let John Watson live?_"

Sherlock leaned his forehead on the glass and closed his eyes, his jaw clenched. He knew what he had to say. He didn't know if John would ever forgive him for saying it. If he was lucky, he could pass it off as simply saying whatever he had to to appease Moriarty - but that would only work if John was even more out of it than he looked. He almost wished John _had_ passed out, but he knew that if he had, the video from that camera would likely find its way into his inbox, or more likely a comment on his blog. This way it was at least _possible_ that no one else would ever see it.

Sherlock opened his eyes. John's face contained both a plea that Sherlock get it right this time and trust that he would. That his best friend would save his life once again. Sherlock straightened up and arranged his face into a cold mask of indifference. When he spoke his voice was slow and measured, even bored. Only his haunted eyes, locked on John's, were full of terror and longing.

"I want you to spare his life because I am in love with him."

"WRONG!"

"NO!" His facade dropped, Sherlock slammed his fist into the glass. As predicted, John's eyes didn't open this time.

"Oh wait. I'm sorry, that _was_ the right answer after all! Oopsie! I guess I got a little carried away, this is just _too_ much fun."

A loud click sounded from the door, and Sherlock threw it open. He ran to John and immediately reached for his throat. He let out a sigh of relief as he found a steady pulse.

"Well, congratulations, you two. I'll be looking for my save the date card. I think you'll find that your cell phone is getting reception again, by the way. But before you get any ideas about whom you should call after the ambulance, you should know that by the time they pinpoint my location within Glasgow I will no longer be in Europe."


	2. Chapter 2

When John Watson came to, he was lying in a mostly-empty hospital room. He blinked, trying to piece together why he was there and why his whole body ached. First he remembered the table he'd been strapped to, then the large man who'd roughed him up before strapping him down. He was pretty sure he'd been drugged before that, as his last clear memory before the large man was of simply walking down the street and buying a newspaper. After the strapping came the waiting, several hours at least, until Sherlock arrived.

_Sherlock_.

John's last memory before blacking out resurfaced, and suddenly he was rather glad that his current company consisted merely of Sherlock's coat over a chair rather than the man himself. Doubly glad - first that Sherlock was around somewhere, he wasn't hiding from John, and second that he'd stepped out for the moment. John needed to process a few things before they next spoke, and since that could be any moment now, John got to processing.

The first possibility was that it was a lie, that Sherlock had simply given Moriarty what he wanted. But it wasn't. He'd gotten very adept at reading the detective's eyes - they were often the only place you'd find any hint of emotion beyond interest or boredom. To be his friend and live with him and not go batty, you had to be familiar with those emotions Sherlock claimed not to have. And in that little room, his eyes had said more to John than his words.

So. It was true, then. Or Sherlock believed it to be, at any rate. John measured his own reaction to the confession. He noted that he didn't find it particularly shocking, for one thing. He admitted to himself that he'd been dancing around the same conclusion since the night at the pool. The sheer terror at the idea that John could be the bomber - that the man Sherlock loved never existed at all - was his first clue. It had distracted Sherlock so completely that he hadn't even noticed that John was wearing a different coat than when he'd left the flat. Then the way Sherlock couldn't, no matter how fascinated he was by Jim Moriarty, keep his eyes from flitting over to John every few seconds. And finally, after Moriarty had left, Sherlock had been positively frantic, not just to get the bomb away from them but even after that. That was what had really thrown John for a loop - he had never in their time together once seen Sherlock Holmes lose his composure the way he did after he pulled the bomb off of John's chest. He'd seen Sherlock himself narrowly evade death without blinking, but putting John through the same thing seemed to knock the wind out of him entirely.

John had explained it all away easily enough. When you've never properly cared about anyone before, possibly not even your own family, when you finally do find a true friend of _course_ your reaction to their peril will be a bit stronger than expected. And Sherlock had spent so much time suppressing every emotion, when he encounters one he can't tame it's sure to cause an even bigger reaction. And so on. John had really avoided the most obvious explanation, hadn't he? But here it was.

How to handle that? The one thing John couldn't let it do was destroy them. That would be exactly what Moriarty was after, wouldn't it? Drive a wedge between them. He wanted to chip away at Sherlock, and for that he couldn't simply kill John. No, grief was simple, pedestrian - _boring_, something Sherlock would discard far too quickly. And once he'd done that, he'd have revenge as an additional motivator in his pursuit, and who knew how much more dangerous such a thing would make him. Better to force this issue, drop it between them like a small ticking bomb waiting to decimate their friendship, keep Sherlock distracted with trying to defuse it.

John wouldn't let that happen. And not just because of Moriarty, of course. He couldn't bear to lose his best friend, certainly not over something the man couldn't help. He couldn't help being an asshole, either, and John forgave him that twice a day. John did love him, after all, and more than he remembered loving anyone in a good while. In love? He rolled the phrase around in his head.

No. No, he was afraid that was a bridge too far. Part of John wished he were, if he was completely honest with himself. He was a loyal man by nature, and long before he'd loved or even particularly _liked_ Sherlock all that much, the detective had engendered quite an intense loyalty from him. It was that sense of loyalty that made his inability to return the romantic feelings feel like the deepest possible betrayal.

He chuckled to himself. He wasn't sure what reaction Moriarty had been hoping for, but he doubted that was it. But a man with no loyalties wouldn't understand that, would he? He'd expect John to be made uncomfortable, maybe to push Sherlock away or maybe just to ignore it entirely and let it fester. He wouldn't do that. He couldn't do that to someone he loved. There needed to be a bit of cooling-off time, but he also needed to make it clear that he cared about both the man and their friendship and that this wouldn't come between them. Then when he thought Sherlock was ready, clear the air fully so they both could breathe again.

He was just starting to imagine how he might want that eventual conversation to go when his hospital door opened and in strode the detective, followed by Lestrade. Sherlock stopped mid-sentence when he saw John was awake. Through those icy eyes flitted relief, joy, and fear before they settled back into his carefully-constructed neutral expression. John smiled at him warmly.

"Excellent, you've come around. You were out for about an hour total. They'd only just gotten you settled in here when I stepped out to meet Lestrade." Sherlock pulled the chair with his coat closer to the bed and settled into it.

Lestrade crossed to the other side of the bed and put a hand on John's shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock's eyes went wild for just the briefest of seconds. Chagrin, followed by panic, then back to neutral. He had realized that he should have been the one to ask the question. Oh, this wasn't good. This was the closest the man got to walking on eggshells, and that was not good. John needed to set him at ease sooner rather than later.

"Like I've been beaten and had a couple hundred volts run through me a few times. Tired, sore. But alive."

Lestrade nodded. "Sherlock was just explaining to me how he found you. How did you get there? Did you _see_ Moriarty at all?"

John explained about the probable drugging, described the large man, gave what little information he could.

"But you're both sure this was his work?"

John glanced at his friend. Sherlock was sitting with his fingers pressed together, his chin leaning against them, focusing carefully on a spot somewhere on John's bed. John spoke quickly.

"Once Sherlock arrived, Moriarty spoke to us through speakers installed in both rooms. He had cameras, too. He asked Sherlock a question, and each time he answered wrong, I got a shock."

Lestrade cut him off. "What on earth sort of question could this one get wrong that many times?"

Sherlock's eyes registered panic, but as he opened his mouth John laughed and answered for him. "What do you think? One about feelings instead of facts. He was forced to admit to Moriarty the unforgivable sin of loving his best friend."

Lestrade shook his head. "And of course, in Moriarty's twisted mind - and yours - that would make you inferior to him. I swear, sometimes Moriarty makes me thankful for you."

This got Sherlock's attention, and he finally sat up straight. "It's not enough that I solve every case your men are too stupid to get, which is to say nearly all of them?"

"What I mean is," Lestrade put his pad and pen away and started to leave, "if you'd been born with just a bit less of a conscience, I'd have two of _him_ to contend with. I'll check in on you tomorrow, John, get some rest."

The partners were left alone. They sat in silence for a minute.

"What was the right answer?" John finally asked quietly.

Sherlock's expression was more guarded even than usual. "How much do you remember?"

John chose his words carefully. "I heard four wrong answers," he said slowly, "and then I blacked out."

Sherlock didn't even try to hide his disappointment. "Oh. You heard all there was to hear, then. That last one, that was correct. Moriarty was just being an ass."

John reached out and put a hand on his friend's arm. "Thank you. I know that wasn't easy. I appreciate that you'd do that for me."

Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes. "I had no choice. I had to tell Moriarty whatever he wanted to hear."

"Of course." John paused. "We're okay, Sherlock, you know that, don't you?"

Sherlock stood abruptly. "Of course we are," he said crisply, "Why shouldn't we be?" He started to put on his coat, "You've suffered no permanent damage, but the doctors want to keep you here overnight for rest and observation. I tried to talk them out of it, but of course they're too stupid to listen. You'd rest better at home without someone coming in to take your temperature unnecessarily every four hours. But as it is, you should get what sleep you can and I'll see you in the morning, yes?" He finally managed a small glance directly at John right at the end.

"Yes, I'll see you at Baker Street tomorrow."

Well. That hadn't gone very well, had it?


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was hunched over the laptop computer in a familiar pose when John entered the flat carrying a box of Chinese takeaway. John settled into an armchair to eat his dinner and frowned at his friend.

"We haven't got a case, what are you concentrating so hard on? And would you like some fried rice?"

"No thank you, and I'm brushing up on my neuroanatomy. You never know when it will come in handy, and the field is advancing at such a rapid rate."

John nodded and grabbed a magazine from the end table to occupy him while he ate. He wasn't paying much attention to it, though; he was mostly watching Sherlock and wondering how to start this conversation. Eventually he finished the chicken and decided that that meant it was time to dive in, ready or not.

"Sherlock. We need to talk."

"Not very badly, apparently, or you wouldn't have finished your entire dinner first."

John suppressed a sigh and pushed on. "We need to talk about - about what you said. What you told Moriarty. ...You're in love with me." There, he'd gotten it out.

"I merely told Moriarty what he -"

"- wanted to hear, yes, of course, go ahead, get the obvious lie out of the way so we can continue."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You said we were fine. I agree, we are fine, there's no reason to bring it up again."

"Sherlock!" John tried to keep his exasperation from exploding with too much force. "You haven't made direct eye contact with me since I got out of the hospital! That's two full weeks now! That's not fine!"

Sherlock gave him a short, pointed glare right in the eyes then turned back to the screen. "There. Happy? Eye contact is unnecessary to solving cases. That's a ridiculous argument for forcing a discussion about something that _clearly_ is open-and-shut."

"It's necessary to our friendship. It's not the eye contact, it's what it _means_." John was leaning forward on the edge of his chair now, pleading for the detective to let him in. "It's you changing how you treat me, how you act around me. Maybe I've changed too, I'm not really sure. Either way, it's a change for the worse, and it's not healthy. And as long as it goes on, we're giving Moriarty exactly what he wants. _We're playing right into his hands_."

Sherlock sighed and looked down at the keyboard. The last part had gotten him. He knew exactly why Moriarty had done it, and he had sworn to himself that it wouldn't work. But it had. He was almost scared of John these days, scared of making him at all uncomfortable or, god forbid, running him off entirely. He thought that he was pushing the fear away, keeping it locked down, but instead he was avoiding John as much as possible - especially avoiding any sort of intimate contact, from a look in the eye to a hand on the arm - in the hopes that the fear would just go away.

"You're right. But I don't see how talking about it will change anything. It's my reactions that are the problem, I'll fix them." To show that he would, he glanced at John briefly before going back to his neurology article. "Done."

John twisted his mouth, chewing his lower lip. He was just going to have to force this, wasn't he?

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I do, honestly Sherlock, wish I could give you what you want. I care about you - I love you, and I want you to be happy. I'm just not interested in men sexually."

Sherlock kept his eyes on the screen. "Nor am I. We have so _much_ in common, we two. We should have coffee sometime."

John paused. "You're... Wait, you're not? So you're... but you're in love with me?"

Sherlock sighed and ran his hands through his hair impatiently. He finally did look at John, and was surprised to find that it was actually easier to say what he wanted to. Maybe eye contact _was_ important. He'd have to experiment further. "You understand that love, even romantic love, and lust are two different emotions, yes?"

"Well, well yes, but... I mean..."

"Why is it that nobody bats an eye when a man lusts after a woman without loving her, but being in love without lust is unthinkable? It's completely illogical, if they are separate then having either without the other should be equally likely."

John finally found his voice. "But they're not _entirely_ separate. They're... related, or entwined somehow. I've certainly never been in love with a woman without lust as well. Have you just... do you just not..." John didn't quite know how to word his question without bringing the conversation into even more private territory, territory he wasn't sure he wanted to explore just then. "Do you... feel lust at _all_?"

Sherlock turned back to the computer. Eye contact didn't make _everything_ easier to talk about, apparently. He filed this fact away. "If you're asking if I've ever been sexually aroused, of course I have. I've even had sex, if you're asking that. I simply don't make a habit of it. I realized as a teenager how terribly distracting it can be and trained myself to suppress it. Eventually it was no longer an issue. And yes, I realize that lack of libido can be a symptom of a variety of serious health issues, but I've been thoroughly checked out and there's nothing like that going on. Simply mind over matter, and my mind can conquer any matter."

"So you haven't... Since you were a teenager? At all? Just because you don't want to?" John shook his head, slightly amused. "Only you."

To John's surprise, Sherlock blushed very slightly. Had he ever seen Sherlock blush? "I will admit that Irene Adler managed to get a bit of a response from me. But she did try so _very_ hard, didn't she?" He glanced at John. He was frowning, but there was a gleam in his eye. "I don't know how you would expect to get any results, you hardly try at all. When was the last time you walked around the flat naked?"

John looked at him seriously. "Do I have to pose like her, too?" He wrapped his arms around his body coyly, like Irene had done at their first meeting.

"It would be nice once in a while." Their faces were starting to break, and by the time John replied again both men were giggling.

"I'm afraid my measurements aren't as nice as hers."

"We've been living together for well over a year, do you _really_ think I don't know your measurements?"

"Of _course_ you do, you're Sherlock Bloody Holmes!" They'd finally broken through the tension, and both men were relieved to be joking again. Maybe they really would be okay.

Of course, Sherlock didn't mention that previous to Irene, the first time in quite a long time that he'd been anywhere close to aroused was the moment he'd realized that John had killed the cab driver. He had looked over at John - who was doing his best impression of a mild-mannered, _ordinary_ man - while the pieces fell into place, and Sherlock's entire view of him changed. Aside, perhaps, from his brother forcing him into rehab, no one had ever saved his life before, and certainly no one had killed for him. Somehow, he'd been lucky enough to stumble into a flatmate with nothing ordinary about him. He'd found John attractive enough when they met, but suddenly it was all he could do to keep himself from snogging the man right then and there. Not in love yet, nor proper lust as his thoughts really hadn't moved beyond quite passionate kissing, but something had definitely flared up inside him, and it had felt downright pleasant. He pushed the memory aside for now.

"And anyhow," Sherlock started after the laughter had faded, "I readily admit that I may not understand the... _nuances_ involved in all these emotions. Maybe what I'm experiencing is entirely filial, and I'm simply mistaking it for something more due to lack of experience. Honestly, why _should_ I know the difference between loving someone and being in love with them?"

"I'd thought about that," John replied slowly, "And the fact is, Moriarty wouldn't either. That's not a man who's ever cared about another human being in his life, what does he know about love? But the thing is, he's also a man who knows his limitations, or he'd never be so successful. He'd find someone who knows better, some expert psychologist who doesn't know what he's really trying to do, and have them watch you, decide what you were really feeling."

Sherlock frowned and rolled his eyes at the laptop. "Of course, I'd deduced as much while I was stuck in that little room, but I'd hoped you hadn't managed to reach the same conclusion yet."

John shook his head. "You really _don't_ think much of my intellect, do you?" He paused, then grinned slyly. "Admit it, you just want me as a trophy husband."

Sherlock chuckled as he scanned through a new article. "I've told you I'm not the marrying kind. And I think very highly of your intellect, just not as highly as I do my own. And quite rightly."

John couldn't argue, so he rolled his eyes and went back to reading his magazine.

Sherlock glanced at him. He didn't want to seem insecure, or push this conversation past the point of John's comfort. But for once, it was nagging at him - he usually reveled in being different, emotionally, but that was when he was managing to suppress nearly all emotion. He wasn't sure he liked having an emotion and having _it_ be different from most people's.

"Is it really so strange?" He asked hesitantly, trying not to sound too interested in the answer.

"Is what strange?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. "What you just finished quizzing me on. Logically, love and lust are separate, but you say they're not. You really think that what I feel is that strange? That... alien?"

"I didn't say alien. Stop it. You said so yourself, you _chose_ to be like that, and it's certainly not strange for _you_. I'm just saying that I, and most men I know are similar, have never been in love with a woman without at least a hint of physical attraction -"

Sherlock sighed - in relief, really, though he made it sound like impatience. "Well I never said not a hint of physical attraction, did I? Really, how do 'normal' people function with all their emotions and physical urges jumbled together like that? Just because I'm not particularly interested in sex doesn't mean you're not a nice man to look at, does it? And humans can desire physical affection that's non-sexual, can't they?" He huffed back to his neuroanatomy, putting on a big show of being annoyed so that he wouldn't accidentally show John the longing that he knew wasn't returned - for a warm hand, a kiss, an arm around him as he slept. Simple things, things he _should_ be able to go without. But he had less experience at suppressing those longings than the sexual ones that had faded years before. He'd heard such things described, but had never had to deal with them himself. Until John.

John blinked at him a few times, sighed, then stood up. "Okay. No offense, Sherlock, but I've reached my limit of trying to figure you out for the night. But I hope we're really okay now."

Sherlock glanced at him. "We are. I'll admit that you were right, talking about it helped. I'd assumed you would be upset about it, or perhaps just annoyed. You get quite annoyed when people assume we're a couple."

"Yeah, but that's just because I don't particularly like people assuming things about me that aren't true. And, look..." He sat back down again, leaned his head on one hand. "When Harry came out... when she was _forced_ out, actually, a girl she thought she could trust outed her rather cruelly - people assumed I was gay, too. Our parents were surprised when I brought home a girlfriend two weeks later. Guys at school tried to bully me and her both - tried, mind you."

Sherlock's mouth twitched up on one side as he gave John an appraising look. "I would imagine you were easily underestimated as a teenager. You're quite good at blending in with ordinary people."

John understood what a high compliment this was, coming from Sherlock, and looked pleased. "I try, unlike some people. Anyhow, the point is it's still a bit of a sore spot for me. I don't get mad about it like I used to, but it gets me on the defensive. It's nothing to do with you." He sighed. "And it does get in the way with ladies. That's annoying. But the point is, this - with you - is entirely different. This is not some outside person making things up; this is what's really happening, and it's not like it's something you can control -"

"I'm working on it."

"Of course you are. But until then... I'm certainly not upset at you, or annoyed with you. I'm... I'm sad, if anything, that you have to deal with this, and I can't help you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "I've been 'dealing with it' for quite some time now. I can handle myself, John. The only thing that's changed is that you know now. It seems you can handle yourself as well, so there's nothing left to help with." His nose wrinkled in disdain. "Just _please_ don't feel sorry for me. Pity is a waste of time in every situation, and doubly so in this one."

"Understood. Good night, Sherlock."

"Sleep well, John."

...

"There's stuff you wanted to say, but you didn't say it."

"Yeah."

"Say it now."

John's mind immediately went back to that night, no matter how hard he tried to wrestle it away. Absolutely not something he could tell Ella.

"No. Sorry. I can't."

While the therapist sat quietly, waiting to see if he continued, he let himself pull up one of the many things he never said to Sherlock.

He imagined himself stopping before he went up the stairs, turning around, saying to him, _"You know, though, it's lucky in a way. Because if you _were_ a woman, I would be completely useless to you. I'd be so completely and helplessly taken with you, I'd be unable to focus on anything else. You're right when you say it can be a distraction."_

He hadn't said it because he knew that Sherlock's reply would be full of questions he couldn't answer, at least not well enough to satisfy Sherlock.

_"How can you know that you'd be physically attracted to me? What if I were an ugly woman?" "Sherlock, look at you. A woman with those cheekbones and that skin and those eyes?"_

_"Why does that matter - not just matter, why is it _the_ deciding factor? If I were otherwise the same person, why does the shape of my genitalia matter so much?" "I don't know, it just does. Probably hormones, or pheromones, or something, but it _does_."_

He didn't understand it, and certainly couldn't have explained it. He shook his head, pulling himself back into the present and the patiently waiting therapist. He squinted his eyes and looked at her thoughtfully.

"Do you think it's possible to be in love with a person with no sexual interest in them?"

"Do you think you were in love with Sherlock?"

He sighed. "No, no. It did sound like that, didn't it? No, it's… just a conversation we had once. But do you? Think that's possible?"

"What do you think?"

John sighed louder. He should have known. "No, don't do that therapist... _thing_ at me. I'm not asking you as my therapist, I won't take your word as gospel or try to apply it to my life or anything. But you must have seen hundreds of people in love, out of love, everywhere in between. I'm just curious what your honest opinion is."

Ella sat back, a small smile on her face. She regarded him for a moment, then answered slowly. "I think that there are more types and degrees of love than any human language has found a way to describe yet."

This answer took John by surprise. He hadn't been expecting such honesty. He raised his eyebrows and considered the answer for a minute, then smiled. "I never knew therapists could wax poetic. You know, I think that Sherlock might agree with you - and he'd say that it was a fundamental flaw of the human species."

Ella nodded and smiled. She waited for him to go on, and when he didn't, she pressed a bit more. "One of the most common regrets that I hear from a man when a friend dies is that he never told the person he loved them."

John shook his head firmly. "No. I did. He knew that, I'm sure of that. I suppose I should be thankful, at least I don't have to live with that regret. He knew I loved him. Love him."

**A/N: Don't worry, this isn't the end. :) If you're enjoying this, please check out my newest story, **_**Bear it Out to the Edge of Doo **_**. I'll be working on both over the next couple of weeks, though this one has probably 4-5 more chapters to go and that one probably only one or two**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, favorites, and alerts! In case you're wondering, right now I'm expecting this story to have about eight chapters, but that might be adjusted as I go.**

Fourteen months had passed since John had watched his best friend die. He slept, as usual, fitfully. He often kept Mary up with his tossing and turning, his shouting at nightmares, but at least lately things had been a bit calmer when he was with her. But tonight she was at a conference in Boston, an ocean away. So he tangled himself in the bedsheets as he slept.

"John!"

"_John!_"

He was being shaken. He tumbled out of bed, a sheet twisted around his legs. When he managed to steady himself, he realized that the lamp was on, and he was looking into a pair of icy grey eyes. He blinked at them blearily as he shook the sheet off his leg.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell _is_ it?" He tried to remember what case they were on.

John froze. They weren't on a case.

He rubbed his face as Sherlock continued urgently. "John, we have to get you out of here _right now_. I'll explain everything, I promise, but for now you've got to come with me. I've packed your bag already."

John stared stupidly for another few seconds. "No," he muttered, almost to himself, "No, no, no." Until something finally clicked in his brain. When it did, his face instantly changed from sleepy befuddlement to snarling rage.

"_NO!_"

Before Sherlock could react, John had shoved him hard enough to throw him against the wall three feet away, knocking the wind out of him.

"No! You do not get to come in here and - you absolute bloody bastard! You lying fucking - where the hell have you _been_? You bloody fucking arrogant arsehole!"

"I promise you, I will explain _everything_, every last detail, once we're safe." Sherlock half-gasped, still crumpled on the floor against the wall.

"_I watched my best friend commit suicide!_" John roared, pacing in front of him. He couldn't take his eyes off the dead man, but couldn't bear to look at him. "Can you even _conceive_ of what that can do to a person? What _you_ did to _me_? Explanations won't take that away!"

Sherlock found his feet and steadied himself. He looked John square in the eye, hands up in a gesture of peace. "I was _not_ trying to hurt you, I was trying to save your life, and your life is in danger _right now_ if you don't come with me."

John tried to piece this together in his brain. He still wasn't entirely sure that this wasn't a dream, or possibly a hallucination. The sensation of ramming Sherlock into the wall was too real for a dream (that also seemed to rule out ghost), but tactile hallucinations were possible. He ran his hands over his face again and decided he had to proceed as if this were real. If it wasn't, he could sort that out in the morning. His rage seemed to be settling to a dull roar, but he was still clenching and unclenching his fists, and his jaw was tight as he spoke. "Why should I believe a word you say? Why should I believe you were ever who I thought you were? Why shouldn't I call the police right now?"

"Again, I will tell you everything, answer every question you can conceive of - _if_ you will leave 221B with me _right now._ If you don't, there will be no questions, because you will be dead." Sherlock's face was changed - thinner, if possible, tired, but something else. It wasn't carefully arranged, it wasn't even trying to hide what he felt. It was frightened and pleading.

The part of John that had longed for his best friend, had hoped and maybe even secretly believed all this time that he'd faked his death, was starting to push its way back into its usual place at the forefront of his thoughts. He sighed loudly through his nose, and with the air the last of his fury seeped out of him. He wasn't exactly happy, but he was willing to negotiate.

"Fine. How is my life in danger?"

"One of Moriarty's associates has rigged 221 Baker Street with a gas bomb containing a biological agent. I don't know how they got it or where, I think some government agency might be testing it and someone leaked it. I'm sketchy on the details, but it contains a virus that is currently frozen, and once thawed can only survive for ten to twenty minutes outside of a host. If the bomb goes off, it will infect everyone who is in the building at that moment but half an hour later the air will be perfectly harmless. Anyone infected will be dead within a few hours. It's set to go off in ten minutes, John. Where is Mrs. Hudson?"

"Her sister took ill this morning, she's away caring for her for a few days."

"Thank goodness."

The two men stood for a moment face to face. The anger in John's face had been replaced by hurt, and he searched his friend's eyes for a sign. "So you just left me here, thinking you're dead? It's been over a year, how could you never tell me? I know - I know you weren't a fraud before, but after this... how can I believe anything you say?"

Sherlock reached out, brushing his hand along John's jawline, settling it with his fingers just into the greying hair, his thumb brushing near John's ear. He leaned forward so that their foreheads touched, his eyes closed. John's pulse raced at the touch, his breathing hitched for just a second. Somewhere in the back of his mind he made a note to be shocked and confused by the physical reaction at a later time, when the rest of the world was making sense again.

"John, you know what you mean to me. You have to believe that I would _never_ leave you unless the alternative were unthinkable."

John was startled, yet comforted, by the sight (and feel, and sound) of Sherlock with his guard down. He paused for a few seconds, wondering if he'd ever see (feel, hear) Sherlock like this again. At least now that was an option. Yesterday there had been no again of any sort. His stomach twisted, still trying to work out reality and truth and lies and dreams. "What if I won't go?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock straightened up and looked John straight in the eye. "Then I'll sit down with you and we'll die together here."

John's tone was matter-of-fact, bordering on resigned. "Right, then. Let me get some trousers on."

As soon as John was dressed, Sherlock pushed a rucksack into his arms and motioned to follow him out the window and down the fire escape.

They spent the next half hour winding through the back alleys of London in silence.

Finally, a long black car appeared at the end of an alley. Sherlock climbed into the back, and John followed suit. Of course Mycroft would know that Sherlock was alive. Aside from the fact that Mycroft knew everything, Sherlock would need a source of money, food, shelter, information. Mycroft was in a better position than John to provide all of those things. So John tried not to feel jealous. It didn't work.

"Who else knows?" He asked quietly once they were settled into the car. "Mycroft, now me, who else?" He was feeling surprisingly calm given the situation, but could feel the fury and the pain rumbling around in the area of his stomach, ready to pounce out again at a moment's notice.

Sherlock looked at him and replied rather hesitantly. "Molly. Molly's the only other one. I needed her help to... disappear."

"To fake your suicide convincingly." John said through gritted teeth. Molly, of all people. He talked to her regularly still, and she's always known? _Fuck_.

"Yes."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes.

"Well, you may as well start explaining."

Sherlock glanced at him, then looked back out the window. He opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it and turned back to look John in the eye as he spoke. "Moriarty was going to kill you. You, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. He had snipers out right at that moment. There were three possibilities: They see me jump, they don't see me jump and they kill you all, or he calls them off. Then Moriarty killed himself, and there were only two options left."

"He what?"

"He shot himself on the roof, right in front of me."

"He couldn't have done. They would have found his body after, even if they identified it as Richard Brook. There wasn't a body up there. Just... the one. On the ground. Yours." John looked away as his brain tried to reconcile that image with Sherlock sitting right in front of him. He felt a little dizzy.

"I know. I think he had considered the possibility and had someone ready to clear it away after. Lack of a body is suspicious, but I've been tracking his men down, and they all certainly believe he's dead. If he's alive, he's completely abandoned his network, gone far underground and not bothered a soul since. And I can't really imagine him doing absolutely nothing for over a year - if he wasn't dead before, he must be dead of boredom by now."

John couldn't really spare any mindspace for Moriarty and his body right then. He tried to pull his head around what Sherlock had told him. "So... so he had snipers trained on the three of us, and they were watching to see if you jumped. So you jumped, and we lived."

"Yes."

"Well. Thank you. I'm not saying I entirely forgive you yet, but that... that helps." He pursed his lips and watched out the window. He needed to think a bit longer, untangle the web strangling his brain.

"I'm glad. I'll tell you more when we get there, yes?"

"Yes. When we get there. Wherever 'there' is." John sighed inwardly as he realized that after about five minutes of hesitation, he was now following Sherlock as blindly as he ever had.

"A vacation home of Mycroft's, in the country. It'll be about an hour away. Perhaps you should try to nap."

John nodded and rested his head back onto the seat. He let his eyes drift closed as the last of London faded away in front of him and gave way to more sparsely-populated areas. After a few minutes though, he opened them and turned his head toward Sherlock - who, to his surprise (only a little) was watching him.

He gave a small smile and clapped his hand on Sherlock's knee. "On the whole, I am glad you're not dead."

Sherlock just smiled and laid his hand on John's. After a moment, John slid his hand back and drifted to sleep for real, vaguely pushing down the insistence in the back of his mind that he put his hand right back where it had been


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N #1: Oh, this chapter. I'm sorry this took so long, but _this freaking chapter._ I started it over from scratch at least twice and it turned out twice as long as I expected. I'm still not 100% sure I'm happy with it, but it's done and that's good enough for me right now. I don't think the next one will be so hard, but I didn't expect this one to be, either! Thanks so much for all your feedback so far, I hope you enjoy this (if you even remember what this story is about by this point)!**

**A/N #2: In the meantime, I have managed to acquire accounts both at Archive of Our Own - PorcupineGirl - and tumblr - p0rcupinegirl - and would love to see you at either of those places in addition to here! I will still be updating my fics here as well, don't worry. I don't have plans to write anything NC-17 so I have no reason to abandon yet.  
**

Sherlock found himself uncommonly fidgety as he showed John around Mycroft's vacation home. He kept touching things - the furniture, knickknacks, the nearest wall or doorframe - to keep from reaching toward John. He had forgotten this. The pull he'd eventually managed to tune out when they lived together. He'd checked in on John surreptitiously a few times while he was still in London, but the last time had been a good year ago, and he'd never gotten closer than a block away.

Now he felt like he couldn't look enough; even though he had every detail memorized, it simply didn't compare to the real thing. He tried not to stare, but failed repeatedly. The instinct to touch, to grab, to hold, was harder to control than he ever remembered it being. He knew that part of it was simply relief at John's being here at all, and a niggling fear deep down that he could decide to leave at any moment.

Sherlock knew what a precarious situation he was in; John had softened quickly but was still lingering somewhere between uncomfortable and furious, sometimes swinging one way or the other at a moment's notice. He had to be as meek as Sherlock Holmes was capable of being, show as much underbelly as he could. Show John that he really, he _really_ this time hadn't been purposely jerking him around and that now that it was over he was perfectly willing to take any punishment given. And to do that, he couldn't shut John out. He had taken off all his usual masks, and knew that for once his face was displaying every thought and emotion that ran through his mind - even while someone else was looking.

Now he worried that John might not like what he saw there - how did ordinary people keep themselves from looking like absolute lunatics when they fell in love? How did they avoid scaring away the person they wanted to be closer to? He had to learn to modulate the longing he knew had to be in his eyes without resorting to hiding himself as he usually did, and he had to learn to do it right about _now_ before he made John any more uncomfortable.

His staring problem and his facial expression problem, luckily, had a common solution - look away, look anywhere but at John. As he busied his hands to keep them from touching what they shouldn't, he kept his eyes busy simultaneously. As he led John through the kitchen and two dining rooms (formal and informal), Sherlock stopped to closely examine no less than five objects, and it occurred to him that John must think he found Mycroft's home absolutely fascinating.

By the time they made it back to the sitting room, he felt like he'd gotten the situation on his face under control. Just in time to start worrying about his next problem. The grand tour had been given and tea had been made. John raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"Well?"

Sherlock had gone through this moment so many times in his head, but reality was never as smooth as fantasy. Even though he'd carefully constructed twenty-two different scenarios involving different levels of acceptance or rejection, he was terrified that he didn't know which he was walking into. Or, even more terrifying, that the year he'd intentionally spent with no news at all of John had deprived him of enough data that there might be unimagined possibilities. While Sherlock paused, John busied himself with pulling a squashy armchair up to the parlor's giant, elaborately-framed window (can you still call it a mere window when it takes up the entire wall?).

"Sherlock, explain. _Now_." There wasn't much patience in his voice.

Sherlock began slowly, while he pulled up his own squashy armchair next to (but not _too_ close to) John's and lowered himself carefully into it. "As I told you, Moriarty threatened to kill you and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson if I didn't jump off of the roof."

"No, no, no," John cut in, "back up. You knew what was happening when you went up on that roof. Hell, you knew what was happening when you faked that call about Mrs Hudson to get me away from you. You had a plan already." He was quickly becoming visibly upset, his tone more accusatory, and Sherlock's mind raced as he tried to find just the right wording to calm him and came up blank. He hoped John was enjoying (or at least noticing) the show of fear, guilt, and confusion that was surely playing across his face right now.

"You sent me away knowing that I was going to come back and watch you die, or - or think I was watching you die, or whatever, and that that would be the last I saw of you, my final memory of you for what, months? Years, maybe, if you hadn't had to rescue me tonight? You _knew_ that, and I want to know exactly _how_ you planned that out, exactly _what_ was going through that bloody mind of yours while you decided that there was no place for me in this. I can't believe, I cannot believe for _one second_, that with you and your brother's combined brilliance the only _possible_ way forward involved leaving me to - to grieve for you, to _blame myself_, to have to completely fucking rebuild myself on my own. So you've got one shot, _one_ chance here, Sherlock, to convince me that it was necessary, and you only get that because it did save my life. So you'd better start over and take me through your logic tiny step by tiny step, and be sure to use little words so I can understand."

Sherlock hadn't expected this, at least not right out of the gate. He tried for approximately two seconds to keep his composure, to give John a calm, rational explanation. Then his wiry frame exploded out of the chair and he began pacing, hands roaming madly through his hair as he avoided John's gaze.

"_It wasn't supposed to __**be**__ like this!_" His voice sounded desperate even to himself. "I miscalculated, I let him get one step ahead of me. This _wasn't_ the plan, John, this is some ridiculous farce we threw together after it was too late." He finally risked a glance at John, who looked honestly surprised and curious. Sherlock stopped pacing and gripped the back of the chair he'd just vacated. All of the guilt, the shame, the fear and panic of the past fourteen months was crowding his mind, even trying to crowd out various organs elsewhere in this body. He closed his eyes and pushed it all back, packed it back into its little boxes to store in the attic until he could deal with it one box at a time. When he felt like he was finally back under control, he began his explanation anew.

"I knew that Moriarty wanted me not just temporarily disgraced, but dead so that I would stay that way permanently. I was almost certain that he was either going to railroad me into suicide, or do it himself and make it look like one. So I _thought_ I had the upper hand for once - I planned the fall with Molly, and I called Moriarty to the roof to make sure that it would happen on _my_ terms instead of his. I expected I'd lay low for a week or two, just long enough for the worst of the publicity to fade. Stay with Molly, work on finding the holes in the Richard Brook story. Once the press had gotten bored, I could have contacted you safely enough. I'd manufactured a cousin of yours who was just about to buy this house from Mycroft. You wouldn't even have to disappear, just come out for a day or two at a time to 'help him settle in,' that sort of thing.

"You see, John, I didn't think it would matter if you knew. If it made Moriarty question my death, made him paranoid, so much the better. It couldn't have taken us more than a couple of months to clear my name and all would be back to normal. I didn't like the fact that you'd have to think I was dead for a few days, but it seemed like a reasonable compromise. I should have known better. I _knew_ that Moriarty saw my connections to people, the fact that I do care, as my biggest weakness. It should have been absurdly simple to deduce that he would yet again use that to his advantage, that he would use your life as bait once again to get what he wanted. But I thought he'd moved past that, that his focus on actually killing me made threatening anyone else moot. Why would he bother with a game he's already played twice before? So I was too caught up in the game I _thought_ he was playing to see the trap until it was too late." He knew his shame and disgust with himself was openly visible, fought the urge to hide it. John needed to see this. He needed to know that his anger was justified - Sherlock _should_ have done better. John had deserved so much better. He moved back around the chair and threw himself into it as he continued.

"And even _then_, I thought the plan was salvageable! I just needed to dispose of the assassins first, and the rest could proceed as planned. A delay of two weeks, a month at the most. But when I found the man assigned to kill you, he told me that killing him would make no difference to your safety. Within a day he'd be replaced. In Moriarty's eyes, having me dead and having me stuck permanently in hiding were equally good outcomes, so he'd built in layers upon layers of protection to keep the three of you in danger for as long as possible if I happened to be alive. Don't get me wrong, I killed the man anyhow. But that was when I realized the full extent of the quagmire I'd pulled myself into. I spent the next solid week arguing with Mycroft, looking for a way to bring you into the fold without putting the three of you at risk.

"But things just... they wouldn't fit _together_ properly!" Sherlock's teeth gritted at the memory of the frustration, "My goals had suddenly grown from mere information gathering, to counter-assassination, to the full destruction of Moriarty's network. That was the only way I could be sure that there would be no attempts on your lives, and I had to do it without so much as a rumor of my possible survival getting out. There was no plan for that. In hindsight, obviously, the answer would have been to fake your death along with mine."

"_Obviously_," John muttered, raising an eyebrow.

"It wouldn't have been that hard to come up with a scenario involving my suicide coupled with your death while trying to save me. I work twice as efficiently with you as without you, we would have been finished months ago. Instead, I went in with an excellent plan to solve entirely the wrong problem and wound up with no plan and no John and left you having to think I'm dead for over a year," He looked John firmly in the eyes, finally, "I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry I missed such a crucial piece of Moriarty's plot, and I'm sorry that that caused me to hurt you and leave you to stay hurt for so long. I failed us both."

John nodded slowly, then gazed out the window for a moment before turning back. "Wait... So why did they try to kill me now? Do they know you're alive? Moriarty's network?"

"Moriarty had a second in command, Sebastian Moran. Apparently he had a clear plan of succession laid out - Moran took over seamlessly when Moriarty died. But word is that now he's grown tired of babysitting Moriarty's old pet project. He doesn't want to spend the next thirty years wondering if I'll pop back up out of nowhere. He doesn't know I'm alive, he's just trying to smoke me out if I happen to be."

"So now that his bomb didn't work, he knows you're alive?"

"Well, Mrs Hudson was conveniently called away, so I can save my cover story for her for later if needed. And also conveniently, Mycroft contacted you yesterday evening for help on a security issue. He's putting you up here for a few days so you can work on it without disruption. You'll find your text records suitably altered."

"And here I thought I'd never have my privacy invaded by Mycroft again. It's just like old times," John gave Sherlock a lopsided grin, and for the first time Sherlock felt like things would be okay. John wasn't going to throw his tea and stalk out of the house. He wasn't going to tell Sherlock to stay out of his life. He might even, someday, actually forgive him.

Over the next two hours, Sherlock gave John an outline of the past fourteen months. Where he'd stayed, how he'd kept under the radar. The strands of the web he'd managed to dismantle, whether by killing someone or arranging a surprise visit from government agents. What he'd learned so far about Moran, a reclusive man whom few in Moriarty's network claimed to have actually met, but all feared. Soon the sun was fully up, and Mycroft's chef had brought them out breakfast.

"I found out a week ago that Moran was planning on going after you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade soon, but the details have been trickling in. One of my informants let me know about the bomb with barely enough time to come and get you."

"And here we are," John finished for him. They had just finished eating, and were now standing at the window, side by side. "And now I get to go back home and pretend this never happened, I suppose. While you go back to saving the world." He sounded more than a little bitter, but Sherlock's eyes lit up gleefully.

He grabbed John's shoulders and turned him so they were face to face. "No, John! Moran knew the bomb might not work, he just wanted to try out a new toy. A week from now, his men will make another attempt on your life. But this time, they will be successful. We can kill two birds with one stone - a perfect excuse to fake your death so that you can come with me, and I can plant evidence at the scene to ensure that the right people get caught for it. I can't make it trace all the way back to Moran, but we can knock out a huge chunk of the network with this!"

John blinked a few times. "Excuse to what? To fake _my_ death? Are you serious?"

"Of course I am! This is the opportunity I've been waiting for for over a year! I told you, I didn't _mean_ to leave you behind, I didn't _want_ to. Now you can finally join me!"

Sherlock had known that John might be resistant to the idea. He wouldn't take the idea of faking his death lightly. He would worry about its impact on those he left behind, especially having been on that side of it already. Sherlock was prepared to do some convincing, even some bargaining if needed. But Sherlock was not prepared for this.

John shoved Sherlock's hands off his shoulders and stormed off across the room, hands pulled tight into fists. "You fucking self-centered bastard!" he snapped, finally turning back to Sherlock and gesturing angrily. "You just can't imagine a world that doesn't revolve around you, can you? Or maybe you just can't imagine _my life_ not revolving around you! Well guess what, I've been living that life for the past fourteen months, _without you_. You sit here for two, three hours, telling me all about your grand adventures, and it didn't even occur to you to ask me what I've been up to! But clearly whatever I've been doing - the _life I've been living_ - doesn't matter. It's disposable, right? It must be, it doesn't contain Sherlock Holmes! Well guess what, it's my life, and it's not disposable, and I can't just run off with you at the drop of a hat!"

"Fine, John. What have you been doing for the past year that is so terribly important? What ranks above dismantling Moriarty's web and _saving lives_?"

"I'm engaged, Sherlock!" Sherlock felt the words like a blow to his stomach, and turned back to the window to hide his reaction. "I'm getting married, and I can't do to her what you did to me. I can't break her heart and then appear one day and jump right back into her life. She won't forgive me like I'm trying to forgive you."

"If she can't forgive you for trying to save lives, she doesn't deserve you." Sherlock's voice was steady, but his mind was reeling. He'd seen the signs of a girlfriend at 221B, of course, but he had assumed she was like all the women John had dated in the past - something to fill the time and satisfy his libido, disposable, not someone he would seriously want to build a life and a future with. But then, most of John's other relationships had failed because of Sherlock, and Sherlock hadn't been there. Without him, John might have married Sarah or even Jeanette and long ago settled into a boring, ordinary existence with a limp and a trembling hand and two kids and a dog.

"It's not that simple. She's been hurt before, Sherlock. She wouldn't forgive me, and I shouldn't - I _won't_ - expect her to. I can't do that to her, I'm sorry." John seemed to be calming down. Sherlock's first thought was that this was simply the result of John's innate sense of duty and loyalty. It had been redirected from Sherlock to this woman, and now he would cling to that like a dog with a bone. But when Sherlock turned around and looked into his eyes, what he saw made him pause. John really didn't want to hurt this woman. He loved her, he wanted her to be happy, he couldn't steal that happiness away from her even for a noble purpose. Sherlock loved John, he wanted John to be happy - but he also wanted, no, _needed_ John _with him_, damn it. Finally, Sherlock sat down and surprised even himself.

"Congratulations," he said softly, "What's her name?"

John watched him warily, clearly thinking this was some kind of trick. "Mary."

"And you're in love with her?"

"Yes, of course."

"How did you meet?"

John finally started to make his way back to his chair as he spoke. "She, um, she came to me with a case, actually. Eight months after you died. I told her I was sorry, but you were gone and I was nothing without you - and she set about to prove me wrong." A small smile settled into his lips and his eyes, and Sherlock's heart ached. All at once, he longed to see that look on John's face _for him_. He'd spent so long, before the fall, getting his feelings under control so that the pangs came fewer and farther between, but this was all just too much at once.

He cleared his throat. "I'm, ah - I'm glad she was there for you, John. So you've been together, what, six months?"

"About that, yeah. The wedding's in another six. If you're back by then, I, um - I hope you'll be my best man. Greg's supposed to do it right now, but under the circumstances I doubt he'd be offended by a last-minute change."

Sherlock knew he should be honored, and he was, he actually _was_, but he was also a little sick at the prospect. So he ignored it. "Isn't that moving a bit fast?"

"I'll admit, I wasn't planning it that way. I'd been tossing around the idea of proposing, but not for another few months yet. Then she surprised me two weeks ago, and... well, quite honestly I've been in a bit of a 'life's short' mindset lately. Can't think why. So I said yes." His eyes were shining at the memory. He looked so god damned _happy_. This was wrong, this was all wrong, but Sherlock didn't want to take that look away from him.

"I know this sounds crazy, but you'd love her, Sherlock. Really. She's brilliant. Not like you, of course, but smart enough that you'd appreciate it. She's a scientist, a psychologist. A professor at King's College. Her research is on motivation, and I swear, reading some of it I've thought to myself how useful it would be for cases, for figuring out motive. I guess I never quite got out of that mindset."

Sherlock's brow furrowed, his mind racing as John spoke. "Morstan," he suddenly said, almost to himself. "You're engaged to Dr. Mary Morstan."

John did a double take. "How did you know her last name? Sherlock, even you can't deduce that."

Sherlock stood again, suddenly restless. One hand ran through his hair, the other fiddling with his pockets as he tried to look very interested in the landscape in front of them. He felt like this whole thing was falling down around him. He hadn't been prepared to hear of John's engagement, but this was so much worse.

"There are only so many professors named Mary in the Psychology Department at King's College who study motivation. I've been reading her work for years. You're right, John, it has been most useful. And she is brilliant." He managed to throw John a sardonic half-grin. "Not your usual taste in women."

To his relief, John smiled back. "Believe it or not, with you gone I needed a bit of intellectual stimulation. I guess when you were around, I just didn't have to look for that in a woman."

"They just had to provide another type of stimulation."

"Oh, that's not... shut up."

Sherlock gazed out the window and tried to control the panic blossoming in this stomach. Of course he'd considered that John might have a girlfriend, but not that the relationship would have already progressed to the realm of _marriage_ and certainly not that it might be a woman who was actually possibly worthy of John, a woman Sherlock might not even be able to hold in enough disdain to want to make John leave her. And, possibly worse than having his perfect plan (_finally_, he finally had a real plan and now this...) destroyed, he realized that if he did manage to wreck this relationship he might not even be able to be happy about it.

Every other woman John had dated since they'd met, Sherlock had found quite a large amount of smug satisfaction in chasing her off. He knew John would never feel the same way toward him that he did John, it wasn't about something so petty as jealousy. But he did require John's presence as both friend and colleague in a way that was incompatible with most romantic entanglements, and none of the women John had dated had ever been remotely worthy of any sort of compromise in that regard. Sarah had come closest, and had correspondingly been the most difficult to get rid of, but although she was a competent doctor she hadn't been intelligent enough for Sherlock to actually find her interesting.

Under any other circumstances, Sherlock would be fully ready to admit that this situation may be the exception. One look at John's face and he could tell that John was happy, John was in love. Mary had gotten him through some very hard times (for which, of course, Sherlock was responsible, but that was currently beside the point), which pointed to good character. Either emotional availability and a high level of empathy or codependency, but he knew that even a damaged John would tire of the latter quickly. And, of course, enough intelligence to make her someone Sherlock could probably stand to be in a room with for more than two minutes, with research interests that wouldn't make Sherlock want to slit his wrists during a conversation with her. All in all, someone he might actually consider sharing John with willingly. Under any other circumstances, and it broke his heart that these weren't those circumstances. He didn't want to hurt John any more than he already had.

"She's not living with you yet," Sherlock said to the window, mainly stalling for time.

"No," John replied, his eyes growing soft, "We've been looking for a place to buy, move in after the wedding. Someplace a bit out of town, with a garden and all. Get a dog. Maybe even have a baby, haven't decided yet. She's only 36, we've got a couple years to figure that out."

Sherlock couldn't help himself. "And you'll be happy like that, John? Spending the next thirty, forty, fifty years in a respectable little cottage with a nice little garden just outside London. Commute to work, feed the dog - how long would it take for your limp to come back, do you think, John?"

John sprang back up out of his chair. "You were _dead_! What exactly were my choices? I can't solve crimes myself, I'm no use to the Yard on my own. And yes, I would have been happy, because I moved on, Sherlock. You were dead, and the only way I could deal with that was to _move on with my life_. I accepted that my time with you, as much as I loved it, as much as I wished I could go back to it, was over. It was a wonderful chapter in my life, but it was a chapter that I closed and tucked away so I could look back on it fondly and think how _lucky_ I was to have had it at all. I had accepted that I was done with that part of my life, and I was ready to move on to the next phase."

"Past tense," Sherlock pointed out, his brow furrowed. Hope was surging through part of him, but the idea that John had already decided to give up his new life was at odds with everything John was saying - with his words, tone, and body language.

John shrugged and looked out the window himself. "Well, you're not dead, are you? That has to change things. It was hard enough to put it behind me when I had no other choice, I know I can't lie to myself and pretend I won't want to go out on cases with you again. Mary will understand that, she knows full well I wish I could do it now. Maybe we won't move so far from the city, maybe we won't have a house with a garden, I don't know. There'll be some negotiation, but I have no intention of shutting you out of my life when I've just got you back, Sherlock."

Of course. The past tense was part of a compromise between old and new, not a full rejection of the new. Which still did not get John undercover with him immediately. Sherlock knew he only had one argument left, but also knew that it was the most convincing one.

"John," he started quietly, catching his friend's eye and making sure that John could see the regret, see that he wasn't just saying these things out of some obstinate insistence that John come with him _now, now, now_ like the child he sometimes could be. "You know that you have to come with me."

John's reply was through clenched teeth. "I know no such thing."

"Think about it, John! What if Mary had been staying at Baker Street with you last night?"

John swallowed, but didn't reply.

"As long as you're in danger, she's in danger, and Moran couldn't care less if there's collateral damage. If the sniper attempt planned for next week doesn't work, who knows what he'll try next until he either kills one of you or makes me show myself, at which point there won't be any trying - he'll have all three of you killed immediately, as Moriarty originally intended. And probably Mary as well, if she happens to be anywhere near you at the time. If he thinks he's killed you, though, and I still appear to be dead, all of you will be safe again. All four of you."

John continued to stare out the window for a moment, his face a blank mask. Then, abruptly, he turned and upended the armchair he'd been sitting in. Sherlock decided to take this as a good sign - if he were still in denial, he'd have nothing to get this furious about. He was seeing the truth, even if he hated it. Sherlock waited quietly while John stalked across the room a few times, hand rubbing over his face.

John finally stopped in front of him. "Please tell me I've got a couple days to figure this out. I only got three hours of sleep last night, I can't process all of this right now."

"The assassination attempt is scheduled for Thursday. We'll need Wednesday to prepare, either to fake your death or keep you safe from it. You have until 9am Wednesday, but I suggest you decide before Mary gets back from whatever trip she's on."

"She's across the pond, her plane lands Tuesday morning."

"You're welcome to stay here. We don't have to talk about it again for a couple of days. I'd appreciate the company, especially if there's a chance I won't be seeing you again for several more months." Best to continue to give John the illusion that he actually had some choice in this matter until he managed to talk himself into the fact that he didn't.

John sighed. "Fine. Fine. Where do I find a bed?"

. . .

They spent the next two days studiously avoiding the topic. John heard more details about what Sherlock had been doing; Sherlock heard more details about Mary. John made Sherlock watch a truly terrible movie that Sherlock secretly enjoyed and John secretly knew Sherlock secretly enjoyed. John had three more outbursts of hurt and/or anger about Sherlock's "death," and Sherlock was so thrilled to have John back in his life that he worked through these patiently. John began to move toward really forgiving him.

Monday morning, John sat down at the breakfast table with a letter in his hands.

"We're going to do this my way," he said, "I'm not you, and I will not do to her what you did to me."


	6. Chapter 6

Mary was exhausted. She'd barely been able to sleep on her redeye from Boston, and nothing made her crankier than navigating an airport bathroom stall with luggage in tow. When she got out of her cab and put the key in the door of her flat, all she wanted was a hot bath and a nap.

Instead she found her fiancé sitting on her couch, flipping through an old photo album and looking somber. She pretended not to notice the latter fact, secretly hoping that whatever was wrong wasn't so serious that it couldn't wait a few hours. But when he looked up at her, she knew that it couldn't. She pretended not to notice that, either.

"John! What a nice surprise! Please tell me you'd like to join me in the bathtub."

He came over and kissed her. "I'm sorry, Mary, I'd love to, but there's something we need to talk about." He picked up her suitcase and started carrying it back to her room, and she followed.

"Oh, that doesn't sound good. Shouldn't you be at work? Don't tell me you skipped work today to give me an 'it's not you, it's me' speech, because if that's what you want to talk about I will call them right up and tell them you're playing hookie." She did her best to sound lighthearted, but in all honesty his tone and face were scaring her.

"Don't be silly, love, if I were going to break up with you it would definitely be you, not me. I'd've realized you're far too gorgeous and smart for a bloke like me." After setting down her suitcase, he pulled her in for a better kiss. A proper, wonderful kiss, but nonetheless one that only reinforced Mary's fears.

"How was your flight?"

"It was a redeye across the Atlantic, is there ever anything good to say about that?" In her heels they were exactly the same height, which Mary loved. She could lean her forehead on his and look right into his eyes with no neck strain for either participant, just as she was now.

He squeezed her around the waist one more time and then pulled away. "Go get settled in on the couch, I'll get you a cuppa."

Mary grabbed the stack of mail John had deposited on the coffee table and started sorting through it on the couch. Nothing too important; nearly everything important came via email these days. Nothing interesting enough to distract her from the question of what the hell her fiancé wanted to talk to her so seriously about.

When John got back with their tea, she didn't have to ask him what this was all about. He sat down, handed her her mug, wrapped his hands around his and leaned his elbows on his knees, looked her in the eye, and said "I'm in danger. And if I'm in danger, that means you're in danger, too." Wonderful, direct John, who could deliver this kind of news so completely calmly, so smoothly.

She knew all about his past. Obviously, she'd known about it before they met, or she never would have gone to him when she received the mysterious letter. She'd since read all his old blog entries and newspaper clippings and heard most of the stories (including quite a few parts he didn't make public) from him directly. She'd always known there was a chance that one of the criminals he'd helped put behind bars - or worse, Moriarty, the ultimate one who got away - would seek revenge of some kind. So here it must be, and she realized that although she was terrified, she was also fascinated by the chance to see this new facet of her lover.

His friend Greg, the DI, had told her how he'd been Holmes's rock, the steady presence who anchored him and who faced every terror unflinchingly. She could certainly see that in him on a day to day basis, but to suddenly get the chance to see how he really responded to this kind of pressure pulled at the side of her that was devoted to the science of the mind. Her John, always full of surprises, always intriguing.

"Okay," she said, trying to stay calm, "What kind of danger? Do we need to leave town for a bit or something?"

He looked down at his tea for a moment. He seemed to be gathering himself up in order to tell her the next bit. She hadn't expected the hesitation, but when he looked up he was just as calm and spoke just as smoothly as before. "Mycroft Holmes contacted me while you were away. Moriarty is dead, but before he died it seems he set some part of his network after me. Mycroft thinks they're going to try to kill me soon, probably in the next few days. He wants to take me into protective custody for a bit."

"Okay," John's steadiness helped her, but staying calm was getting harder and harder. "I'll have to find someone to cover my classes -"

"Just me, Mary," he put his hand over hers. "I'm sorry, I'm _so_ sorry, but if I'm gone you won't be in any danger. They're only after me. They'll still be after me, and Mycroft can't guarantee my safety. You've got to understand that." His tone was growing more forceful. "This is not a guarantee, it's just the best I can do right now. If you come with me you'll be at risk too. If anything happens I don't want you there."

"Okay, now you're scaring me. You're talking like you might actually die -"

"It is a very, very real possibility. You have to understand that. You have to be prepared for that. Mycroft is very good, he's the best, but there's a chance that someone from Moriarty's network has infiltrated his ranks and if that's true, there may be nothing we can do, nowhere I can hide. That's why you can't come with me." He stood up and crossed the room, rubbing his hands over his face. He motioned for her to join him. Mary's brain was starting to go numb, and when she stood up and crossed the room to him she felt like someone else was moving her around.

He slid his arms around her and looked her in the eye. "I love you so, so much," he said gently, "and I trust you with my life. I _am_ trusting you with my life, literally, Mary, and others as well. There are several lives at stake here, and I'm trusting you to do exactly what I tell you to in order to keep as many of them safe as possible. Mycroft didn't want me to tell you any of this, he wanted me to just disappear, but I'm trusting you. Okay? Do you understand that?"

She took a moment, looking into his eyes, to process what he'd just said. Her brain slowly creaked back to life as she realized that he was about to give her instructions, and that whatever the hell was going on it was vital that she remember them. "Yes," she finally murmured, "I understand."

"First off, do not follow me, and do not try to find me. Do not try to contact me, don't call my cel, don't text me, _nothing_, okay?"

"Okay."

"Second, don't tell a soul - not your mum, not Harry, not Lisa, not anyone at all - what's happening. If anyone asks, tell them I'm at a medical convention in Edinburgh. Got that?"

"Medical convention in Edinburgh. Yes."

Then John did a very odd thing. He leaned forward and whispered the next part into her ear, so softly she had to strain to hear him. "There's a letter for you, under my mattress at Baker Street. No matter what happens, exactly one week from today I need you to get that letter, read it, and do exactly as it says. Do you understand? _No matter what happens._ This is the most important thing you can possibly do for me, Mary."

Mary suddenly realized: he was whispering because her house might be bugged, and he hadn't cared if they heard the rest of it but this was apparently so vital he couldn't risk it. "Yes," she whispered back, "One week. No matter what."

She could feel his body relax as she said it, and he nuzzled into her cheek. "I'm so sorry, Mary," he murmured, "Please don't forget that I love you."

"How could I forget that?" She kissed him gently, which wasn't what she wanted to do. She wanted to drag him back to her bedroom and tie him down to the bed so he couldn't go anywhere. Hire the best bodyguards her not-incredible-but-not-so-shabby professorial wages could afford, replace the windows with bulletproof glass, run bomb sniffing dogs through the house, hunker down, and wait until Mycroft did his job and got rid of whatever this threat was. "When will you be back, John?"

He looked stricken at that question. "I - I don't know exactly. I get the feeling this will be resolved in one way or the other within, er… within two weeks at the outside. But I really don't know when I'll see you again, Mary."

He was always such a horrible liar. She frowned. "There's something you're not telling me. I mean besides the obvious things like where you're going. There's something you want to tell me but you're stopping yourself, and I think that something you have told me is a lie to cover it up."

"There's a lot I'm not telling you, Mary, but I can't. Like I said, I'm trusting you with my life and the lives of several others - I need you to trust me right now." His eyes were sincere and pleading.

She sighed. "When do you have to go?"

"Every minute I'm with you is a risk. I've got to go immediately. In fact, there's a car outside for me now."

"Okay," she said, and forced herself to smile. "Don't die, John. Please, stay safe. I love you. And anyhow, we already paid the deposit on our reception site."

That got a laugh out of him, and they shared what felt horribly, horribly like one last kiss. And then he was out the door, and Dr Mary Morstan fell to the floor and cried.

. . .

The funeral for Dr John Hamish Watson was held on Monday evening. There had been a wake Sunday afternoon. Both were very well-attended - Army buddies, seemingly half of Scotland Yard, a handful of doctors from Bart's and from his own practice, his and Mary's extended families, clients of Sherlock's, even some friends from his youth had found their way there. He had been well-liked, there could be no doubt about that.

On Tuesday, Mary was at Baker Street with Harry, going through John's things. Harry was in the sitting room rummaging through a box and seemed occupied enough, so Mary ventured a peek under John's mattress. As promised, there was an envelope there.

Ten minutes later, she stormed down the stairs and into the sitting room, tears streaming down her face. She grabbed the skull off the mantle and threw it against the wall. When it bounced off unsatisfyingly, only the jaw coming loose, she stomped on it and crushed it and may have been chanting "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!" while she did so, though she wasn't entirely sure.

Harry was off the couch in a shot and wrapped her arm around her nearly-sister-in-law's shoulder. By some chance, Harry had been sober for nearly three months when Sherlock had died, and when she saw the state her brother was in had managed to stay that way. She and Mary had always gotten along quite well, Mary never having met the drunkard, only the supportive, if sometimes overbearing, sister.

Mary's face crumpled as she shoved the letter at Harry. "It says to let you read it, too," she said as another sob escaped, "That bastard! That absolute, unbelievable bastard!"

Harry got through only the first paragraph before looking up at Mary, her own face beginning to come undone. "John's alive? He's alive? This is real? You're sure this is real, Mary?"

"He told me. Last week, he told me he needed to go into hiding, that he was in danger and Mycroft was going to keep him hidden, and he told me that today, exactly today, I should find this letter in his room and read it. It's real, he told me to read it." Mary was hiccuping a bit as she spoke, but the worst of the sobbing was over for now.

It was Harry's turn. She backed up into the couch and collapsed onto it, her face in one hand. She managed to clear her eyes well enough to read the rest of the letter, stopping now and then to break down anew. Meanwhile, Mary found more objects to break, mostly things she was pretty sure were Sherlock's.

Eventually, they made a fire in the fireplace and burned the letter, as it instructed. Mary tossed in a couple of expensive-looking chemistry books for good measure.

. . .

Three months later (give or take), Mary opened her door and found her dead fiancé on her doorstep. Luckily, she was prepared for this; not only had he left her a letter explaining his apparent death and disappearance, he had had the courtesy to leave another letter for her yesterday, warning her that he was coming home today and by tomorrow would be publicly alive once again. Despite those letters, she felt tears escape when she could finally see that he was really, truly alive, standing in front of her. No bullet through his head, not cremated and scattered to the wind. Standing, breathing, and looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. She threw her arms around him in a ferocious hug. "Get in here," she managed to whisper through her tears.

She excused herself to make some tea while John settled in on the sofa. His hair was longer than usual and starting to get shaggy; he clearly hadn't cut it since she'd last seen him. She'd spent all morning preparing for this moment, but suddenly couldn't remember a thing she'd wanted to say to him. Part of her wanted to just take him back, say _look, I know you did what you had to to keep me safe, thank you, let's get everything exactly back to normal and figure out where we can hold the wedding now_. But she couldn't, and as she waited for the kettle to boil she had to remind herself why not. She just couldn't live like this, she couldn't be happy that way, and she can't let herself pretend that she could.

"Everything better now?" she asked once they had their tea, "Everyone safe, all the bad guys behind bars?"

There was sadness in his smile, and something else she couldn't quite identify - something she hadn't seen before. "Better, yes. Some people are safer, including you. And me. Some bad guys are behind bars, yes. Some are - well, they're not behind bars, but they won't be bothering anyone again." Oh. That's what that was. He'd told her that he'd shot a man to save Sherlock's life once, but that had seemed so… abstract. A story he told her. And of course he'd killed people in Afghanistan, she knew that. This was different. It wasn't in the heat of the moment; he'd hunted these people down. And he wasn't completely okay with that, but he was living with it.

She nodded and looked down at her tea. "John, you - okay, first. I'm glad you're safe. And I'm glad you were able to keep me and everyone else safe. And thank you for trusting me and respecting me enough to let me know what was really happening, even though nobody else thought it was a good idea. But - you - you realize that I just can't - I can't ever trust you again, knowing that you're willing to do something like that. Please tell me you understood that."

He set down his tea and took her hand. "I know. I - I knew that. It doesn't mean I can't try, though, does it?" Mary was glad for the honesty. It would have been so much worse if he'd actually expected her to take him back when it was all over. That would have felt like he'd never really bothered to get to know her at all, like she'd just been a placeholder in his life. It was too easy to feel like that anyhow, like John had been waiting for _him_ to return all this time and she was just someone to fill the void. But at least he did know her as well as she'd hoped.

"I'm sorry, John, I can't. I can't. I'd be wondering, every day for the rest of my life, what lies could you be telling me right this very minute because somebody's life is on the line if you tell me the truth? How many people have to be threatened before you just disappear again? I can't live like that, I just can't."

"I understand that. I do. But let me just say - you knew that, Mary. You knew, from the beginning, what kind of life I've led. I'm a doctor, I was a soldier, _I save lives_. I've put myself at risk to do it. And when I lived with Sherlock, I made enemies. I made that very clear. You had to have known that if that ever caught up to me, I might have to take more risks to save more lives. God, I'm sorry, I'm really not trying to say that you don't have every right to be pissed at me and never trust me again. Because you do, you absolutely do, it was a shitty thing to do to you and I wish I hadn't had to. I just.." he looked up at the ceiling, pursing his lips, "I guess I'm just not sure why you ever trusted me in the first place."

Mary nodded, smiling a smile that didn't look or feel at all happy. That was what it came down to, didn't it? This was inevitable. Even without Sherlock in the picture, it had always been a given that at some point, someone from John's past would resurface and put them in danger and he'd have to do something stupid to fix it. And _with_ him in the picture… Well, John would be pulled back into his vortex and, one way or another, Mary would be the one left behind. He didn't have to say that part, but it was obvious. It always had been, but it hadn't been concerning since, well, he'd been dead. Until he wasn't, and then it was.

She hadn't planned to say anything about that part, but she suddenly found herself blurting out, "There's more to it than that, though."

His eyebrows twitched upwards. "Is there?"

She took a deep breath and wished she'd kept her mouth shut, but it was too late. The words poured out on their own. "You can't have us both, John. You think you can, and you'd try. You've probably been imagining this new life with both of us in it, and how you'd balance it, but that's not how it would go and you know it. And I'd lose that race every time."

"What? No, Mary, that's not - obviously, if the cases were taking up too much time, I'd choose my wife over that!"

"Interesting choice of words," Mary murmured as she cleared away their mugs.

John followed her into the kitchen. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You said you'd choose your wife over the cases. Not that you'd choose me over Sherlock Holmes." She didn't say it with any malice, and she didn't feel any. She'd gotten past that weeks ago. She hadn't had to go through the stages of grief for John, but she'd gone through them for their relationship and long since arrived at acceptance. She wasn't happy, of course, but she was at peace with it enough to be matter-of-fact about it now.

"Oh come on, you know that's what I meant!"

"But you didn't, John," she said, as she put the mugs in the sink. "You didn't choose me. You went off with him -"

"Mary, I had no choice! You know that. Lives were at stake, _your life_ was at stake!"

Mary spun away from the sink, her eyes flashing. "You can't possibly tell me that _faking your death_ was the only viable option. We could have just broken up, not seen each other for a few months!"

"They really were trying to kill me, Mary, and by letting them think they'd done it we managed to plant evidence that put a lot of people behind bars a lot faster than they would have gone otherwise. I guarantee you that it saved lives." She could see that he really did believe it, really did believe that this had been his only option.

"It might have been the fastest way, the easiest way, the most efficient way, but you will never convince me, John, that it was the _only_ way. That if you'd just refused, that you and Sherlock and that brother of his couldn't have put your heads together and come up with something else. Yes, it might have taken a bit more time, but the end result would have been the same. Except that you wouldn't have gotten to leave your boring new life behind and run off after Sherlock Holmes." She was surprised to find tears coming to her eyes - maybe she wasn't as at peace with all of this as she'd thought.

John was looking at her as though she'd slapped him. She hadn't planned to take the conversation in this direction, she really hadn't, but in for a penny, in for a pound, right? "Please just answer one question for me, okay? Please, just be honest with me. I need to know." She paused for a breath and he nodded, "You and Sherlock, are you - or were you ever, before, have you ever been… were you lovers?"

There had been two possible reactions she expected to see on John's open book of a face. Either guilt, shame, possibly fear if she'd discovered a secret; or surprise, anger, maybe disgust if it were completely untrue. What she wasn't prepared for, though, was pure exasperation. His eyes rolling up, his head tilting back, his hand raising to rub at his temples. A tone of voice that was weary, not the tone of someone caught in a lie or accused of the unthinkable but of someone who is just sick of this.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Mary, not you." He looked her in the eye. "No. _No_, okay? No, Sherlock and I have never been - we've never been _anything_ except flatmates and friends. Never before, and certainly not now! Dear God, Mary, I know you and I weren't exactly… _together_ the past three months, but you know I've been hoping it wasn't really over. You can't possibly think I'd go out and sleep with someone else and then ask you to take me back!"

She couldn't help but laugh. "John, really? Are you listening to yourself? Not _I don't feel that way about him_, or even _Jesus, Mary, you know I don't swing that way_ - you're going with _I didn't sleep with him because I wouldn't cheat on you_?"

John stalked back into the sitting room as he spoke. "Okay, _stop_ twisting my words. If you won't take me back, do it for a good reason." His anger was melting into a plea. "Do it because I'm a bastard who made you think I'd died, not because you've decided I'd rather shag Sherlock Holmes than you." He took a deep breath and looked her in the eye. "There's nothing between us, there never has been, and I've never wanted there to be. I swear to you."

She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway to the sitting room, regarding him sadly. She loved him, and he believed every word he was saying so earnestly. Maybe he needed to hear this. This last thing that she'd never intended to say. She couldn't keep him, she just couldn't, but she wanted him to be happy in his new post-Mary life. So she told him. "I don't think I could stand to be in the same room as the two of you. Not as your wife. Not even as your fiancé."

"What does that mean?"

"Mike and Lisa, they've been happily married for almost a decade. Did you know she's his second wife?"

"No, I didn't. What does that have to do…?"

She put up a hand. "Just hear me out. Please. His first wife, Amy, she died rather tragically. She was only 24, they'd been married for less than a year. And Lisa lives every day knowing that Mike will always be in love with another woman. That a part of him wishes he were still with her, that he'd never had the chance to marry Lisa. And she's totally okay with that, because Amy is dead and she respects that part of his past.

"The way you look at him, John. In photos of the two of you together, how you look at pictures of him, how you look when you're telling me about the things you did together. It's the same way you look at me sometimes. I always just treated him like Lisa treats Amy - someone who was your world, and will always own some part of you. And I was okay with that." She could feel the tears returning, and fought them back. "But John - if I, as your wife, saw you looking at another _living_ person like that? That would _not be okay_. It doesn't matter that you'd never cheat on me, it doesn't even matter that you don't think your feelings are romantic. Whatever it is that you do feel for that man, there's no room for it in our marriage. I'm not a jealous person but I do insist that there are some things that my husband can only share with _me_, and whatever that is, whatever you think it is, it falls into that category."

John didn't reply immediately. His shoulders had sagged, and defeat was written across his face. He studied her with those open, honest eyes before finally shrugging and saying, "I suppose there's nothing I can say to that, is there?"

He crossed to the door, Mary trailing a few feet behind. "I love you, John," she said as he opened it, "And I'm sorry it went this way. Goodbye."

He looked back at her. "I love you too, Mary. I really, really do." And then John Watson stepped out of Mary Morstan's life.

**A/N: This chapter went so much more smoothly than the last! There might be a bit of a delay before the next one, though - I know where the story is going (in fact, I have half the last chapter written), but I'm a bit undecided about exactly how to get there. I might have to try a couple things before I get a version I like. Thanks so much for all your reviews, favorites, and alerts, they keep me motivated when I get stuck!**


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